Somewhere Else
by EOlivet
Summary: He hadn't realized how dangerous it was to depend on her.


Disclaimer: The characters described herein belong to Hank Steinberg, Jerry Bruckheimer Television Productions and CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Timeline: Post-Between the Cracks.  
  
Rating: R (TV-MA) for language and content.  
  
Acknowledgments: This story would literally not exist without S and her support and encouragement. Thanks for plying me with Eminem and a little extra Australian. ;) Alt-S-R. Thanks so much to D for her constant enthusiasm. With apologies to Maple Street, the rockingest forum that ever rocked.  
  
***  
  
Somewhere Else  
  
***  
  
The first thing he noticed was that she wasn't there.  
  
He had just walked Chet Collins to the elevator -- this poor soul so consumed by guilt, so wracked by grief -- and as one more door had closed in the broken man's sad face, he discovered he was now alone.  
  
She hadn't waited. She had gone home.  
  
The emptiness was almost overwhelming. She'd been waiting for him for more than three months now. If either one of them had a particularly difficult case, the other would come up with some excuse to stay and then they'd leave together -- to hold, to console, to hide from themselves in each other.  
  
He hadn't realized how dangerous it was to depend on her. How much it hurt not to have her there.  
  
The silence was oppressive as he walked back to his office. He understood why she hadn't waited. She had been professional and polite, but every time he looked at her, he saw a weariness, an ache that strained against the facade she wore. And he'd have to accept it was he who slashed her spirit, who made her bleed the painful tears that hid in her eyes more than a week ago.  
  
Still, he had to tell her that night. He couldn't end up like Duncan Muller, who had just let Emily slip away. Maybe he could fix his own weak marriage by getting rid of the one thing that could break it.  
  
He hadn't told her before because he wasn't sure what would happen, what he wanted to happen. No, that was a lie. He knew that she made him feel -- and every part of her consumed him fully.  
  
But that was why he had to stop it. And it was why she wasn't waiting for him tonight. She was somewhere else...and he was here. It was an odd feeling. Stranger than when he first moved out of his home, away from his family. Perhaps that was because he'd been away from them, at least mentally, for a long time. And he'd never really left her. Even now.  
  
She was somewhere else, but the phone was here and that was really his only thought as he picked up the receiver and the echo of each hollow ring shallowly resonated over the line. He suddenly realized she might not be home. She might not answer. If she wasn't waiting for him anymore, who was to say she wasn't somewhere--  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Tired, weary, a slight edge to her voice. It was late and she didn't seem to be expecting a call.  
  
"Hey."  
  
There was a pause. "Is something wrong?" She was cautious, but concerned.  
  
"I, uh, I heard about Becky." At least that was true.  
  
Something like a sigh. "Yeah, her mom's gonna take her home. She was devastated." Then she stopped. She was putting it together in her head. "What is it, Jack?"  
  
He readjusted his grip on the phone. "I just-- I just wanted to see how you were." It sounded plausible, and that was certainly part of why had had called.  
  
But she saw through at least a portion of his lie. "You want to come over, don't you?" There was a hint of sadness in her tone. Disappointment of some sort.  
  
"If you're-- not doing anything." Trying to sound casual, he ended up sounding desperate. And he was, in a way.  
  
Another brief pause. "No. I'm here," she replied, tentatively.  
  
"OK." He waited a moment before adding, "I'll be over in a little while."  
  
"All right. See you then." Her words were followed by a click.  
  
He missed leaving with her after everyone else had gone home. The trip was shorter when they were together. Somehow, they always found a cab or the subway came right away or some nights, they'd just walk, and it never seemed to take as long as the distance implied.  
  
Tonight, however, there was not a cab to be found. Three Outbound trains that would've taken him home passed before an Inbound one going in the opposite direction arrived. It seemed to take longer than usual, but he finally reached her stop. When he exited the subway, it was raining. Luckily, only a few blocks separated him from her apartment.  
  
As he stood outside, waiting to be buzzed in, he marveled at how this place always seemed like another world when he was with her. They were careful not to be too obvious, but he didn't have to worry about gazing or smiling at her, or accidentally brushing against her on purpose.  
  
The steps dwindled until her door was in sight. As he raised a hand to knock, he noticed the wood was old...and felt rough. Strange. Then he remembered he'd never had to knock before.  
  
It took her about a minute to answer. Her eyes were raw, tired, tinged with red. She hadn't been sobbing, but it certainly looked like she'd shed a few tears that night. "Hi," she greeted, her voice straining.  
  
"Hi." He looked at her, but she seemed to be looking through him. Finally, she backed away -- allowing him to enter.  
  
The door closed behind him and he saw her rub her eyes as she walked over to the kitchen. She didn't speak, but he heard the distinct clatter of a coffee machine. Cabinets opening and closing. Things being placed on the counter. The slight rush of liquid being poured. Then she was in front of him again with two mugs of coffee.  
  
But when their eyes met, she all of a sudden looked embarrassed. "I was just-- I was making some for myself, so I figured..." She didn't finish her sentence.  
  
"Yeah...sounds good," he remarked, awkwardly. He was going to take one of the mugs to reassure her somehow, but something in her demeanor was making him hesitate.  
  
A brief nod, and she handed him a mug, walking with hers to the closest chair and sitting down. After a minute, he found a spot on the couch.  
  
The silence was almost stifling as they wordlessly sipped their coffee. "Sam, I'm sorry," he told her, breaching the uncomfortable quiet in the room.  
  
She seemed surprised, but something in her eyes softened. Still, her expression remained neutral. Her mouth moved slightly, as if she was going to say something, but then changed her mind.  
  
He pressed on. "What happened to Becky -- it wasn't right."  
  
She looked at him for a moment before her stare hardened again. "No, it wasn't," she said, simply.  
  
So that hadn't been what she expected him to say. He swallowed. "I'm sorry about that, too," he confessed, glancing down at the mug in his hands. "I should've told you sooner." I shouldn't have kept it from you, he wanted to add. But somehow he wouldn't let those words escape.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it," she responded, rising from the chair with her mug and heading back towards the kitchen.  
  
"Sam..." he called after her. When she didn't respond, he walked over to where she was standing, facing the sink; her back turned away from him.  
  
"I-- I misunderstood, okay? I don't want to talk about it."  
  
He stayed at the edge of the small kitchen, watching her -- two feet, but miles apart from him.  
  
No, you understood, he thought. That was the problem. You understood when no one else did. You understood too well. Which is why I can't make you understand now.  
  
Her shoulders rose and fell and she turned around, not seeming at all surprised that he was standing in front of her.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said again.  
  
She nodded in acknowledgment, though he wasn't really certain she'd actually heard him. "What happened with Chet Collins?"  
  
His eyes closed briefly at sound of the lost man's name, and he hoped she wouldn't notice.  
  
But she knew him too well. "Jack..." Her voice was softer now, as she took a couple of timid steps away from the sink. "What happened?"  
  
It was so hard to stand there and keep it from her. The urge to tell her everything was so strong, and he felt it pull at his heart along with all the other secrets he had to keep. Burdened with everything he wanted to say, but wouldn't. Couldn't.  
  
"I...don't want to talk about it," he stated, as forcefully as he could. Sighing, he fought back the emotions pushing into his eyes. "I just need..."  
  
He wanted nothing more than to hold her. But instead, he kissed her.  
  
For a minute, it felt like she went limp before she put her arms around him and kissed him hard. Forcefully. Almost as if she was proving a point.  
  
Their mouths fought rather than melded together -- snapping, biting at each other. He took hold of her waist, trying to move them in the direction of her bedroom, but she grabbed tightly onto his shoulders and pulled him down.  
  
They tumbled to the kitchen floor in an awkward heap, his bad knee stinging from contact with the hard surface. He winced, but kept it from her as he continued to attack her mouth with his.  
  
Doesn't mean anything, he reminded himself, his hands acting on instinct as they slid up her legs, under her dress. Her hands were equally rough as they maneuvered around his waist. The pain in his knee was quickly becoming a secondary sensation.  
  
He blinked, then gasped at the same time a sharp cry tore from her throat. Crash -- she had thrown her head back against the cabinet. Still, she urged them on -- frantically assaulting his lips and tongue as he continued to move against her. Again, she cried out -- a loud, piercing noise. It was hot, violent and bright, her shoulders slamming into the door of the cabinet as she rose to meet him. Their mouths dueled, their bodies clashed and soon he found himself echoing her feral sounds.  
  
Almost fully clothed, they only bared themselves to each other in the rawest way possible, speaking with their bodies only because words would communicate too much. Baptized with sweat and unshed tears. Her skin scorched through her clothing -- her mouth tasted dry and blazing, as their inarticulate cries echoed rather than enhanced the primal synchronicity of their movements.  
  
His knee throbbed with pain, and yet he ignored it. He shouldn't care -- he couldn't care. Don't, won't, can't mean anything. Fuck comfort, fuck emotion, fuck loneliness and despair and grief, he didn't need, didn't want, didn't have--  
  
He collapsed against her, her nails clawing at his back as she shuddered with one final thud against the cabinet. The sound of her head hitting the door sickened him more than the pain now pounding through his knee, and he rolled them away from the cabinet so she was lying on top of him. He hadn't dared open his eyes -- terrified that she would see through all these lies, truths and everything that teetered perilously in between.  
  
He felt her start to get up and finally, he allowed himself to steal a glance at her. She was stabilizing herself with one hand on the counter, while the other was pressed against the back of her head.  
  
"You OK?" he blurted out, unable and unwilling to hide his concern.  
  
She grimaced slightly as she nodded her head. "Fine." There was a chilly finality to the word.  
  
As she stood before him, he suddenly became very aware that he was still on the ground. Now, he braced himself against the floor and tried in vain to hoist himself to his feet. His knee flared up in protest, but he gritted his teeth against the sharp ache. She was still rubbing her head, so hopefully she hadn't noticed. Grabbing hold of the counter, he struggled once more to stand.  
  
That was the moment she chose to turn around. Her eyes flashed shock, followed by an uneasy recognition. "Your knee." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
She helped him regain his footing, but he shied away from her. "It's nothing," he insisted, ambling over to the couch and gingerly taking a seat.  
  
Crossing in front of him, she remained there in silence. Their eyes met and he found himself wordlessly seeking her forgiveness, just as he had that night. This is the way it has to be, he pleaded, trying to convince them both.  
  
Of course, she didn't understand. He was asking for the highly improbable -- that he could keep the truth from her, but still she would somehow discover it. Highly improbable, as her brief look of confusion was quickly replaced by a cold and indifferent stare.  
  
"It's late," she declared. "You should probably go."  
  
Nodding, he managed to get up from the couch without incident. "Thanks for the coffee," he rasped, trying to keep the discomfort out of his voice.  
  
"Anytime," she replied, frostily. His hand was on the doorknob when she spoke again. "Jack?"  
  
Turning around, he caught her empty expression, her lonely gaze. She hesitated, staring briefly at the floor. "I'm sorry about Chet Collins."  
  
It was perhaps the sentiment he least expected. "I'm sorry about Becky," he told her, softly.  
  
Their eyes held the moment. He wanted to enclose her in his arms, stroke her hair and cry on her shoulder as she cried on his. He wanted to show her how much he didn't want to leave. And he wanted to tell her exactly why.  
  
Instead, he opened the door and released them from the hollow numbness hanging in the air. He couldn't even bring himself to say good night, knowing how in the past, he would've awakened with her the next morning. But right now, his obligations demanded that he be somewhere else, somewhere not with her. Still, he wondered how wrong it could be to leave his heart in the eyes of a woman whose tears fell as readily as his own, mixing with the steady rain, which both cleansed away and magnified all his sins.  
  
The End. 


End file.
